At one of the wall tables of the Apéritif in Jermyn Street Judy sat beside Nicholas. She was so happy that the world around her seemed to have changed. Faces were prettier or more handsome, lights were brighter, the jokes at the theatre funnier, the stage dresses gayer. Just a little heightened effect everywhere, and all because she was spending an evening in London with Nicholas. Yet not all because of that. There had not been a chance for much conversation alone with Nicholas’ mother, but the few words she had said were enough to lift her spirits over the hills and far away. “Nick is in love with you, my dear. He’s a poor gormless idiot with an inferiority complex, so it’s up to you to make him speak up, and if he can’t, you’ll have to do the proposing yourself.” A smile curved the corner of Judy’s mouth as she remembered this conversation. If Nicholas loved her he had indeed a funny way of showing it. All the way up in the train he discussed Clara Roal. In the intervals in the theatre he discussed Clara Roal. She had no doubt that now, over supper, he would discuss Clara Roal. It was lucky that Clara had no idea of how she was monopolizing Nicholas or it would give her a great deal of pleasure, and that would be more than Judy could bear.
Nicholas finished ordering the food and drink and turned to Judy.
“What are you thinking about?”
For one glorious moment Judy toyed with telling him the truth, repeating the whole of her thoughts, including what Lady Parsons had said, but she had not the courage. Lifted like this into a shimmering world, even though it were perhaps make-believe, was something worth having. It would be frightful if she said, “Your mother says you’re in love with me,” and Nicholas answered, “Mother’s always full of fancies. She’s a dear old ass.” Quite likely it was all fancy, but if so she did not want to know it to-night. To-night she was in love with Nicholas and imagined Nicholas was in love with her. A gay dream night, not to be spoilt. She took the cigarette he offered her.
“I was thinking of poor old Miss Rose alone with that horror, Clara.”
“But she’s safe as houses. Clara’s plainly got her where she wanted, she has her house and her money, and even the poor old thing working for her. There’s no one whose death Clara would dread more.”
“If only I could get her to speak to me, if I could find out what Clara was holding over her.”
“If Mother can’t get a word in edgeways, then nobody can. Mother, as she says herself, is used to having her own way.”
“I expect Doctor Mead is right and it’s better for him simply to fetch Miss Rose on Monday morning than to try and force things before they’re ready. There’s no point in making Clara suspicious. Oh, but I do simply hate having to see Miss Rose treated as she is.” Judy shuddered. “You’ve no idea what it’s like, Nick. I suspect I only see a tenth of it, and that when I’m at the factory unmentionable things go on. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if Doctor Mead chose to examine her on Monday if he found her bruised from head to foot” Nicholas said nothing for a moment because the waiter was bringing their cocktails. When the man had moved away he turned to Judy. The look in his eyes surprised her by its fierceness.
“Let’s drink to our getting a clue from the incident officer to-morrow.” He took a sip and spoke in an exasperated voice. “If only that wretched Joseph Bloomfield would answer. I made certain you’d hear by yesterday afternoon’s post.”
The hors-d’oeuvre wagon was pushed up. There was not really a great deal on it, but to Judy, by the standards of Clara’s table, it looked luxurious.
“Don’t let’s think about the wretched woman any more. Let’s make pigs of ourselves while we’ve got the chance.”
Nicholas studied the dishes on the wagon.
“I have to try and remember everything I eat on a jaunt like this. In our guard-room when we’re on Home Guard duty we like to hear about each other’s trips abroad. We don’t often hear about a trip to London. We’re very naughty nineties in Pinlock, in our attitude to London. We never go there without expressing what we did with digs in the ribs and winks.”
Judy bit a radish in half.
“I must say on this occasion digs in the ribs and winks are very fitting. Shocking, really, what an orgy of vice you and I have been in for.”
Nicholas was apparently attending to the hors-d’oeuvre which were being put on his plate.
“The evening’s not over yet. You’ve no idea how terrific the rest of it may be going to be.”
They were away from Clara at last and Judy was determined that they should keep away.
“Your mother told me about your nephew. What’s the mother like?”
Nicholas ate a sardine before he answered.
“She’s one of those boot-button-eyed French women who look as if everything about them snapped. She’s very young and, in her way, very good-looking.”
“Where did Lionel meet her?”
Nicholas shrugged.
“In the park, on the top of a bus, I don’t know. She came over as a refugee and was working at something or other to do with the Free French. She made Lionel happy though. They had a funny sort of domesticated time, which I can understand him wanting. The war makes you feel rather detached and futureless, doesn’t it? He married her because of the baby.”
“Why won’t she see your mother?”
“Lionel wanted her to take the baby to Mother. It’s the heir, of course, since Lionel’s death. Though he didn’t know the baby was coming into that I think he thought that Mother would be a better hand at bringing up the kid than Marcelle, but Marcelle is one of those possessive women, and the end of it all has been she’s refused to see Mother at all or let her see the boy. The child is, in fact, being brought up lower middle-class French. However, none the worse for that, I dare say. My hope is that Marcelle will marry again. She’s good-looking and attractive in some ways, and she cares nothing for being her ladyship.”
“And if she did, your mother would bring up the boy?”
“Not on your life. I don’t believe in old people bringing up children. I should adopt him myself.”
“And bring him up with your children?”
There was silence for quite a while. When Nicholas spoke he sounded aloof. As if Judy had pried where she had no right.
“That particular point hardly arises. I haven’t got many little toddlers sitting round my hearth at the moment. If I ever should have children, then Lionel’s boy will join them, if Marcelle should agree.”
“Have you spoken to Marcelle about it?”
“No. It’s all too problematical. I’m not in a position to make a proposition involving the future.”
Judy put down her knife and fork and felt she did not want to eat any more. Quite suddenly the glow faded from the evening. What did Nicholas mean? Why wasn’t he in a position to make a proposition involving the future? She glanced at his fine-drawn face and his thin hands. Why did he know Doctor Mead so intimately? Was there something the matter with him? It was as if this thought put all her friendship with Nicholas into focus. His casual keeping her at a distance. An ill man without a future would do that.
His ignoring of over-fatigue. How often had she said to him lately, “You can’t go on missing sleep night after night,” to which he had answered something vague about one could only die once.
Judy, though she made a manful effort, could not get back into her gay mood. Nicholas was a wonderfully sensitive companion, aware of shades of feeling almost as if he were a woman. He carried on a cheerful chatter and did not seem to mind that all he got from Judy was an occasional yes or no. Then suddenly, when the waiter asked if they would have coffee, he said no, he would have his bill, and turned to her.
“I’m taking you home, my little babbling brook. It can’t be good for any woman to chatter so much as you have in the last half-hour.”
“I’m sorry. Have I been dull?”
One of her hands was lying on the seat between them. He slipped his over hers.
“You could be a thousand things, Judy, my pet, but dull, never. Come on. I’ll take you to your cousin in Kensington and then you’ll be fresh for to-morrow.” Then he added with one of his odd, shy smiles. “You know, there are such a lot of things that you think, and I know that you think, that I’d like to talk to you about, but, in my opinion, this world is a sad and hard enough place for each one of us without our deliberately adding to each other’s burdens.” Then, to prevent her picking up his serious tone, he added, “I hope you’re full of fortitude, my little lioness, for if I know anything of Jermyn Street on a Saturday night there won’t be a smell of a taxi and we’ll have to leg it for Kensington.”
Nicholas’ friend in the Civil Defence Service had arranged that the incident officer who had been in charge when the Roals’ shop was bombed, and the two wardens who had worked with him, should be at their Post on Sunday morning. The Post was in South-East London and Nicholas and Judy travelled there on the top of a bus. Nicholas was in tremendous spirits, but Judy had slept badly and found this hard to disguise. All night in her dreams she had been haunted by disasters. As is the way of dreams, not all the disasters happened to Nicholas, sometimes it was disasters to herself, but always there was a feeling of things going wrong and her happiness being ruined. She had wakened up in tears.
The Wardens’ Post was three rooms in a partially blitzed school. Judy and Nicholas were greeted by the Post Warden, who introduced them to the incident officer and the two other wardens.
“This is Mr. Smithers, my deputy, he was incident officer on the particular incident in which you are interested. This is Joe Crawley, who was working with him, and this Nobby Clark, who was acting as messenger from the incident to the Post. They’ve got the log-book and some papers, and I think you’ll find that they’ll be able to tell you anything you want to know. There’s a room here that you can use for as long as you like. You’ll not be disturbed, except that one of our ladies will be making a cup of tea later on and will bring you in a cup.”
The room they were given to talk in was bare and formal. There was a table in the middle and some chairs against the wall. Judy’s heart sank. They wanted such difficult information, the sort of information which, if the wardens knew it, could probably only be drawn out in long, slow conversation over a mug of beer. The setup of this formal interview seemed to her all wrong, but she had reckoned without Nicholas. In two minutes he had established a friendly attitude.
“I’m terribly sorry to bother you fellows to turn out on a Sunday morning. I’ll be as quick as I can, for I know you want to be back on the allotments, but I’m not here to waste your time. You’ve been told what incident I’m interested in. I’d like to be able to tell you why I’m interested, but I can’t do that. The point is that Miss Rest here and myself have come up against something a bit peculiar, and we want you to rack your brains and see what you can remember that might give us a clue. I can just tell you one thing: it’s just possible that somebody got hold of some rather dangerous stuff in that chemist’s shop, and if you can lend a helping hand now you might be able to save somebody’s life.” He felt in his pocket and took out a box of cigarettes and some matches. He laid them on the table. “Help yourselves. Now, Mr. Smithers, do you remember the chemist’s shop being hit?”
Mr. Smithers was a big man with a red face. He took a cigarette and lit it. He paused before he spoke, clearly marshalling his thoughts.
“It was hit at nineteen hours. We went straight to the incident and it was a bit of a job. We knew Alfred Roal was there and we had quite a job,” he glanced at Judy. “No need to go into that, he was killed, you know. The shop was almost entirely wrecked, with the exception of a bit behind the door; there was a cupboard there, everything was pitched out by the blast, but it was not demolished like the rest. We had to prop the place up before we could get out Roal’s body. Mrs. Roal was living outside London. We got in touch with friends of hers and they told her. Must have rung her up, I think, for she came to the incident very early on, didn’t she, Joe?”
Joe was a perky little man with blue eyes.
“That’s right. As soon as it was light. Mr. Fothergill, up the street, had let her know; he was a china of Roal’s.”
Nicholas looked sympathetic.
“I suppose she was in a terrible state, poor thing?”
Joe nodded.
“Shocking. She stood outside what had been the shop and kept staring at it, saying over and over again stuff about saving the place and how it was all they had; didn’t seem to take in what she was looking at really. We did what we could, asked her if she wouldn’t like to go along to the Rest Centre for a bit of breakfast, but no, we couldn’t make her budge. They’re often like that, you know. Seems as if they’d got to stand and stare. I told Nobby here to pop back to the Post and see if there was a mobile canteen coming along; we thought a cup of tea might do her good. There was no way of making one, for all the heat had gone in that area.” Nobby broke in. He was a skinny, grey little man. He spoke quickly, his words tumbling over each other.
“I run back and told the Post Warden and he told one of our ladies to get on the phone and find when the mobile was coming our way. When I came back to the incident Mrs. Roal had gone into the shop, or into what there was of it, and was carrying on like a madwoman, digging about amongst the soot and that on the floor and moaning. Looked very rough she did.”
Nicholas turned to Mr. Smithers.
“What did she take away?”
Mr. Smithers opened an exercise book.
“I’ve got my report here. Of course the stuff all belonged to her. We knew her and it was all right for her to touch anything she wanted to, but you have to check up in a case like that because there was quite a lot of stuff thrown out of the shelves and, of course, we had to be careful because of looting. I’d made a sort of rough list before she came. There was soap, and some blue-paper bundles that might have been cotton wool, a few sponges and stuff in boxes; it was all in a bad way, you know, mixed up with soot and rubble. You couldn’t rightly tell what was what. She took some of all sorts. She pushed some of it into her bag and a lot more she rolled up in a jersey coat that she was wearing. She had pulled off her overcoat, and taken off her jersey and piled the stuff on it, kind of frenzy she was in, really. I came and stood by her, trying to check what she was taking and at the same time to get her to see reason. I told her we’d put everything safe for her and the best thing she could do was to let Joe take her round to the Rest Centre, but she was like a mad thing, she couldn’t seem to hear what was said. Then up she got off her knees, dragged on her overcoat and, with the stuff she’d picked up carried in her jersey as if it were a bag, she started running up the road.”
“Just as the W.V.S. canteen came round the corner,” Joe put in.
Judy smiled.
“I expect you were glad of a cup of tea though.”
“You’ve said it,” Joe agreed. “Cup of hot cocoa I had and a couple of good sandwiches. Written on the canteen was that it was a gift of New York. Raining cats and dogs it was, didn’t half bless little old New York that morning.”
Nicholas glanced at Mr. Smithers’ note-book.
“Was much stuff saved?”
Mr. Smithers turned over a page. He cleared his throat.
“Eighty-two cakes of soap miscellaneous. Fourteen sponges very soiled. Two eye-baths. Three cardboard boxes containing ampoules of injections. Seven ampoules smashed. Eighteen boxes of paper handkerchiefs. One bottle of hair oil.”
Nicholas was making notes on a piece of paper.
“And Mrs. Roal had taken what?”
“Some more cakes of soap, the blue packets, some sponges and a few of the boxes, and some oddments in bottles. I rather think there was a bottle of salts.”
“Did the boxes that Mrs. Roal took hold the same as the boxes of injections that you salvaged?”
Mr. Smithers nodded.
“Just the same. I reckon Mr. Roal kept that particular stuff in one place.”
Nicholas managed to speak calmly.
“What were the injections? You don’t happen to know that, I suppose?”
Mr. Smithers turned over another page of his exercise book.
“Yes, I do. Mr. Perkins, he’s another chemist, he came to look over the stuff and I got what he said here. ‘Mr. Perkins called at the Post at sixteen hours, he came to ask about Roal’s stuff with a view to making Mrs. Roal an offer for what was saved. He said we ought to put the injection stuff somewhere safe where it wouldn’t get knocked about. He said it was stuff for asthma and to stop bleeding. It was called Adrenalin’.”